love is so fickle
by vanilluxe
Summary: It starts with a flood and ends with a trickle. ;; Victor/Linda ;;


**Title: **love is so fickle  
**Author: **meadowplate  
**Pairing: **Victor Niguel/Linda Reid  
**Fandom: **Trauma Center: Under The Knife  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Summary: **Love will be the death of them.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own Trauma Center! That belongs to the amazing Atlus.  
**Warning(s): **None.  
**A/N: **I scrapped the original story I was writing for this claim because I loathed the sheer amount of angst and cliché plfot devices I used. So yeah, I'm going to attempt to keep these two in character sans the massive angst. I know Derek and Angie went to ~*travel around the world*~ at the end of UTK2, but you'd hope that they'd be back after three years. I have no clue what Victor would wear outside of Caduceus. Use your imagination on that front, too. :P

* * *

"_love will be the death of me  
__love is so fickle  
__it starts with a flood and it ends with a trickle—"_

**i. envy**

He knows that there is something inexplicably odd about her the first time he sees her.

She's talking animatedly with Stiles, her hands facilitating whatever story she's telling. He can tell that her grey eyes are tired, more tired that they should be for a girl who looks as young as she does _(how old is she anyway?)_.

He says something and she laughs, loud and shameless.

"Are you trying to keep me here? Are you really that lonely?" she asks, tugging on his ear despite their height difference.

"No, no! It's just…boring sometimes. But if you're so busy being a celebrity, you should be leaving pretty soon, right?"

She falters for a fleeting moment where her eyebrows crease together and she pouts, but she's fine after that jab.

"I don't think karaoke bars are going to shoot me to celebrity status, but even so, why don't you ever come to see me? You know where I work," she tells him, sticking her tongue out.

He knows that he's seen her before, either here at Caduceus or elsewhere, but if his memory isn't utter shit by now, he can't remember this girl being so full of life. He envies her a little; he can't break out of his perpetual cynicism (does he want to is the question that should be asked), but maybe there's hope for him if a girl like her could change.

And it's stupid, the way he makes a mental note of where she works – _it's just curiosity, really _– but if he stays on the far outskirts of her life, there's a chance that he could change.

Maybe.

**ii. excitement**

The second time Victor sees her, he's just passing by.

Really.

He's still not entirely sure how he ended up here in this quaint little bar, but he's here and he might as well stick around.

(The name of the place and 'Wednesday Friday Saturday' have been ingrained in his mind for a while now.)

He sits at the end by the entrance, and strangers shoot him little looks that seem to ask him: "Shouldn't you be sleeping instead of hanging around here?" He folds his arms and leans against the wall, knowing that some stupid girl (probably) isn't worth it. He's been putting up with people who seem intent on making him deaf, and who is to say that this girl – Linda? – is any different?

"Hey, Linda, come on up here!" a girl shouts from across the room, and his head instinctively turns back towards the bar, where she perks up and murmurs something about not being good and how she'd pass out right then and there.

And that's how he knows – one of these is not like the others.

She relents after a bit more coercing and nervously steps up to the stage, laughing nervously at her summoner and the rest of the crowd.

"You really shouldn't be forcing her into this," a boy sitting next to Linda's presumed friend says.

"Why not? We need some good entertainment that doesn't involve making fun of other people every now and then."

He can't imagine how she must feel, even if she's likely done this before; she smiles but looks as though she wants nothing more than to slither back into her original position.

He can't help but sympathize on that front.

The heads in the room turn as she coughs and focuses on the screen, quietly singing into the microphone, her voice eventually becoming louder. The song is some soft pop sing that he's never heard before (most music of that kind is crap, anyway) –

"_Do you really know me at all?"_

– and he's intrigued. He manages to tear his eyes away only for them to gravitate back to her, and he notices that she's much more confident now; her back is straight, her hands are planted neatly on the microphone, and she's smiling calmly, bowing as the song finishes to considerable applause.

It's over that quickly?

She bounds off the stage, scratching the back of her neck and waving off compliments. They're asking for an encore but she's refusing, sneaking back into her station behind the bar.

He still can't take his eyes off of her; when she meets his gaze and smiles politely, he turns his head and feels a rush of heat rise to his face (he'll be mortified if she finds out he's been staring.

Abso-fucking-lutely mortified.)

He feels like a middle schooler, sneaking glances when she's talking to someone or looking away and staring at the floor when she looks back.

And it's exciting, to say the least.

It feels as though he's living through adolescence much too late.

**iii. joy**

Linda's trying not to lookup, but it's hard not to when she feels a pair of eyes staring at her when she's not up on the stage.

She wonders if she should just go over and talk to him (if only because he's oddly reminiscent of her former self – he's her ghost, brooding in the corner).

Alienating a person who looks as irritable as he does is not exactly an appealing possibility.

After she's sung for the night, she goes back and her eyes dart around nervously, trying to tune out the calls for her to come back. She bites her lip, makes sure her bra straps aren't showing, and strides over to him.

"H-Hey," she greets, leaning over the counter. "Are you alright?"

He flinches and stares at her for a moment before staring at the ground.

"N – Yes."

She quirks an eyebrow and tilts her head to the side, trying to see if there's any emotion in his tired features. There is none.

"You're awfully quiet, aren't you?" she asks before realizing how stupid it sounds. She shakes her head, burying it in her palms. "Sorry, sorry, that was stupid. You don't know anybody here, I assume."

He looks away, and she can't stop herself before reaching over to brush a few strands of black hair out of his face. She laughs at his surprised expression and gets a good look at his eyes; they're the same onyx color as his hair.

(She can get lost in them, she thinks.)

"You shouldn't hide your face like that."

"It's not like I want to talk to anyone here, anyway," he mutters.

Well. That certainly isn't an attitude expected of someone met at a bar.

"Then why did you come here? Needed to get away from work? School? Life?" It's a lame attempt at a joke that comes across as a little too earnest, but it elicits a smirk from the otherwise annoyed man in front of her. She feels a little too proud –

"Everything – if that's what you mean, then yeah, you could say that."

– and she's almost in love with him just from the indecipherable look he gives her.

Almost – and that 'almost' is so strange, considering how she wears her heart on her sleeve for the entire world to see.

"I don't know, it depends on what everything is." She adopts a pensive look, not at all trying to incite curiosity. "Everything for me is pretty simple – school, here, music, and…I would say family, but they're on the back burner right now, to be honest. But for somebody important, who does things that actually matter, it's a lot more than that."

"How old are you?"

"Huh? I'm twenty-one…"

"You're pretty naïve for someone as old as you," he says, raising his eyebrows.

She can't imagine what her face must look like right now, but she huffs and folds her arms tightly across her chest. "I'm not old! And you don't even know me! You can't say stuff like that."

(No, it doesn't matter that she is as naïve as a sheltered toddler and that he was only stating the truth.)

The smirk is there again, and she leans closer, attempting to give a dirty look, but the whole thing ends in a giggle fit. Oh look, there goes her dignity –

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing!"

She laughs harder.

And she's almost in love, but all she knows right now is that he makes her happy.

Inexplicably, stupidly happy – so much that she forgets about the constant, searing pain that she experiences all too often.

**iv. depression**

Victor's a little scared.

A little.

He isn't used to this – this _feeling_. This stupid feeling that makes him feel like he's going to go into cardiac arrest at any given moment. Or vomit. Or both.

Jesus Christ, he's hopeless.

"Well, aren't _you_ excited to be leaving early again?" Stiles calls out to him as he emerges into the break room, out of his uniform and in normal clothes (he's still getting used to this, after all).

He responds with a groan of discontent.

Stiles turns to the nurse and asks her, "I wonder why he could be so eager to leave? He's married to his job, you know. Could it be – no, it couldn't!" The mock drama in his voice is enough to make his blood boil, but he bites back a scathing remark (and he's getting used to that, too).

"Don't be ridiculous, Derek. If he hardly gives us the time of day, what makes you think –"

He slams the door behind him.

* * *

Winter is always the most popular time around here – it's not cold enough where the alcohol will put you in any feasible danger, but it's not warm enough to drive away potential bar goers.

Linda looks around and wonders how long it will take some of these couples to get married, divorce, and be bitter.

Her love life is in shambles after the last guy who had the immense misfortune of dating someone like her (_"I can't deal with your emotional baggage, Linda")_.

It doesn't matter that much, anyway – she doesn't have time for men, doesn't have time for pain.

She laughs bitterly, biting a nail and glancing around the room.

He isn't here tonight.

She shouldn't care as much as she does, but he's become a comfort, always sitting in his little corner and minding his own business. She hasn't gotten his name yet, but she intends to. It'll be the first step in getting to know this enigma.

She's only partially listening to the call for a gin and tonic somewhere, her gaze glued to the door, hoping for a glimpse of dark hair and eyes.

"Linda! Are you paying attention?" her boss calls out from the back.

"S-Sorry!"

She scurries around, making the drinks in record speed, and plops down on a chair that gives her a decent view of the stage. Jean is up there now, singing a trashy rock song from a couple decades ago, but she makes it sound so sweet. She wonders why people praise her instead of her friend; her own voice is so quiet, she trips over the words, and it doesn't resonate among people.

– (Well, isn't that situation all too familiar?) –

She scowls and runs a hand through her messy hair, realizing that fuck, she's a pitiful music student working in a mediocre bar for slightly above minimum wage. That degree isn't going to help much in the real world.

She's hopeless.

Tears sting at the corners of her eyes and she doesn't bother to hold them back. It's a rare moment where she's just so overwhelmed and her façade begins to break – but it'll fade. It always does.

"Linda?"

She looks up to see her boss, his arms folded across his chest and a sympathetic expression plastered across his face (he can't summon genuine concern, and she's gotten used to that by now).

"Yeah?"

He sighs, looking much older than thirty at the moment.

"Is there something up?"

"Not really, no."

"Why are you crying?"

"I'm not!"

She knows that she's not fooling him; he's a smart man and he can see right through her paper-thin defenses. He sighs again and places a hand on her shoulder.

"If whatever you're going through is distracting you this much, maybe you should call it a night a bit early," he suggests.

She frowns. "I'm fine, really."

"You're not."

She hunches her shoulders and stands up. "Alright, I guess I'll leave a little early."

(Defeated, as usual.)

She heads into the back, pulls on her jacket and slings her purse over her shoulder, striding out of the bar and into the chilly January night. The stars are covered by clouds – God's sick way of telling a joke. She's hardly out there at all when she bumps into someone, knocking her back into the door and hitting her head on the glass. She opens an eye and recognizes him, but he's moving before she can say anything.

"'Scuse me," he mumbles, reaching for the handle and glancing at her.

He doesn't think twice before going in.

She stands there, her mouth slightly agape. How could he not recognize her?

She's slightly disappointed.

Slightly –

— _(A lot.)_

She wipes the corners of her eyes and walks home.

**v. anger**

Days later, things are beginning to wind down and Linda's sitting behind the bar, leafing through a book on music theory. She's vaguely aware of the fact that it's 11:00 PM and people are staring at her – no studious girl would ever get a job at a bar.

She hardly glances up when the door swings open –

(It's not like she's waiting for anyone)

— and it's almost as though instinct takes her hand and forces her to stand up.

She strides over to the corner as he reaches into his pocket; she yanks a bobby pin out of her hair to keep her place in the book. She's not sure if she's still angry at him for not recognizing her, but any anger that she had been feeling before dissipates when he looks up at her, quirking an eyebrow.

"Hey," he says quietly, a contrast against the constant chatter in the background.

She nods in acknowledgment.

"You weren't here the other night."

"I left early. I saw you, actually, but you didn't recognize me," she states, deadpan (she _hopes_ she's deadpan, anyway; she'll be horrified if he detects the disappointment in her voice).

"Hn."

"Why do you come here, anyways? You never talk to anyone besides me and…come to think of it, you never do drink. Do you people-watch?" She pauses. "Or…do you come here to see someone? Are you too shy to talk to them?"

His expression tells her everything she needs to know.

* * *

She's perceptive; he'll give her that.

"Why does it matter to you, anyway?" Victor snaps, unable tfo think of any other reply that wouldn't give him away. If, by some horrific turn of events, she finds out that she's the whole reason he's been dragging himself to this stupid place, he'll never leave Caduceus. Ever. And he is not one to exaggerate when it comes to matters such as these.

She furrows her brow –

(He notices a small, awkward beauty mark next her to left eyebrow)

– and props her head up on her wrist.

"It matters because it's depressing seeing you brood in the corner all the time. Spill."

"I don't have to tell you anything," he says, coming off as a spoiled child more than anything else.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I don't have anyone to _tell_." She leans over the counter, staring him down with an intensity that he can't look away from (no matter how much he wants to, although that desire is debatable).

He still doesn't say anything.

She eventually gives in and shrugs, scowling. "You're stubborn, annoyingly so."

"And your constant ragging on me isn't all that pleasant either, princess."

Princess?_ Really? It doesn't matter if it was sarcastic, that's a new level of stupidity, _he thinks, resisting the urge to turn away to hide his quickly burning face from her.

"Touchy, touchy! It must be nice to be a jerk to someone who doesn't even know your name."

"You never asked."

"Well, I'm asking now. What is it?"

She's smiling again; it's annoying and idiotically charming. Why does she have to do that?

"You tell me your name first."

"Linda," she tells him.

"Linda." It's simple and pretty enough. He can live with that. "I'm Victor."

She extends a small pale hand and smirks. "I suppose this is a formal greeting then?"

He's reluctant, but his hand meets hers and he returns the smirk. "I suppose it is."

His anger fades away and he's satisfied; she's Linda, and he's Victor, and that's all there is to it.

And that's good enough for him.

**vi. fear**

She figures that before she pursues any kind of relationship with people – friendship, romance or otherwise – she needs to face the fact that she's afraid of many things.

Afraid of commitment.

Afraid of failure. (It's a bit too late for that.)

Afraid of falling into the same detrimental mindset she once possessed.

Who would ever fall for someone so consumed by fear anyway? More to the point, why is she thinking about such a trivial thing? It's not like she's in love with anyone.

She needs to snap out of this belief that love is a cure for any ailment. She knows that it's not true.

She turns over in her bed and pulls her pillow over her head. Tomorrow will be hell.

* * *

He checks on Wednesday and she's not there. It's not a big deal.

He checks on Friday and she's not there. It's throwing him off, but it's only slightly disconcerting.

He checks on Saturday and she's not there.

It's a big deal.

She's probably sick or something; isn't it the end of the semester for college students? She'll be taking her finals soon.

These possibilities don't make him feel any better about the time he's wasted going to the same stupid place looking for her company. And if the idiots at Caduceus make any snide remarks about his reasoning for leaving early again, there will be blood.

He sighs. Probably not, as much as he loves the image.

He goes home.

* * *

Linda comes back to work on Wednesday after a nasty bout with the flu and he isn't there.

She's (very) disappointed and she broods for a bit before being called up to the stage to sing a tacky love song by a name forgotten by the majority of the people in the bar. Thinking about it now, it's been a while since she's sung the only song out of the selection that she likes – the only song that she's actually good at.

Maybe she'll sing it the next time he comes.

(She physically flinches at the sudden revelation that she wants to impress him.)

People begin to shuffle out until there are only a few men murmuring to one another at the end of the bar to her far left. She sighs and opens her book to where she left off, but not before glancing up at the empty seat where he usually sits.

She has another thing to add to her list of fears:

_Afraid of being alone._

**vii. greed**

Victor doesn't expect her reaction when he walks in – then again, he hadn't been expecting her to be there at all.

She looks up from handing someone a drink and smiles –

(it's not completely natural, but hey, he'll take what he can get)

– before being tapped on the shoulder by someone behind the counter and being led into a back room. He thinks nothing of it and sits down in his usual place, craning his neck to see if he can catch a glimpse of what she's doing.

She emerges, very visibly seething, but calmly making her way over to him and hopping over the bar into the seat next to his. Her hands are shaking slightly, but she doesn't say anything.

He feels intrusive and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He is most certainly not up to initiating the conversation tonight.

She looks at him, but his eyes are elsewhere. He is fairly convinced that he looks like a pubescent boy about to have his first kiss.

"Where were you the other day?" she asks neutrally, folding her arms. After a moment, she adds more playfully, "I missed you."

He turns his head to look at her. Her eyes are teary, but the redness is beginning to fade.

"I should be asking you that; you were missing in action for a whole week," he says. "Plus, I have a job."

"I was sick. Flu season, you know. And stress. God, stress." She rubs her temples, shedding the black jacket she was wearing, exposing a light blue tanktop. "But where do you work, anyway?"

He knows the routine by now.

"Research and development at Caduceus – not too far from here." His voice is completely monotonous, and he can imagine her reaction; someone like her can't understand why such an occupation is important. She'll make a face and regard him with contempt for being such a 'boring' person. She'll just be another shallow person in the sea of dipshits he meets on a monthly basis.

This, of course, is all thought before she's leaning in so close to him that he almost loses balance. Her eyes are sparkling and she takes his hand, very clearly impressed with his answer.

"Really? That's amazing! I've always had respect for people who are at the forefront of medicine – I mean, I'm into more creative endeavors, but they're not going to do the world any good, so…But anyway, I really admire people who have a career in any aspect of medicine. I used to think that the only important people were the surgeons, but after an incident a few years ago, I realized that there's a lot going on behind the scenes that most people don't know about," she tells him enthusiastically, never breaking eye contact.

Well. This is a bit new. So she isn't what he initially thought she would be. Not only that, but she actually had respect for his position.

A college student fresh out of her teen years has respect for _him_. Plain, socially inept Victor Niguel. As she continues to gush, he realizes that he _likes_ this. He likes being respected out of genuine admiration rather than intimidation.

He wants more, so he listens more intently.

(Her smile looks natural, and he can't help but think that this is the look that suits her best.)

* * *

Linda can tell that he's not used to talking with people extensively, or even talking with people at all; he's probably the sarcastic, bitter type who can't say anything without it being scathing.

(Hey, she's seen all kinds in this place. Reading people gets easy after a while.)

But she likes him. She wants to coax him out of his shell, maybe open up to her a little; nothing big or too personal, just something to go by.

"Hey, space cadet, snap out of it."

"Huh?"

He huffs. "Do you daydream this much at school?"

"Yes. In fact, I think they subtly encourage it."

"It was a rhetorical ques – what?"

"I go to Musician's Institute. Most of the stuff is hands-on, but when we're in a lecture or something like that, it really doesn't matter whether we pay attention or not." She pauses. "Well, that's how it's worked for me so far."

He raises his eyebrows, probably unimpressed by her going to music school. "So you're a music student."

The contempt in his voice is enough to make her scowl. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"What are you going to do in _music_ of all things?"

"I don't think I'll tell you if you keep talking like that."

"Fine, fine. Just tell me."

"I'm probably going to end up working in the film industry. I want to be a composer, but that's a pretty far off dream." She sighs. It's true.

Maybe she just wants too much out of life.

There's a condescending expression on his face, but he says nothing. She pouts.

It must be so _stupid_ to listen to her say something so whimsical. She never was good at formulating a sentence that sounded halfway intelligent.

"You're hardly an adult. You're taking yourself too seriously."

She blushes and frowns. "I'm not! You can't be that much older than me, anyway."

He falls silent, looking at the counter rather intently for someone who was determined on mocking her only a moment ago. She decides that it's probably better to drop the subject, but she's still curious. He can't be that old.

_I hope, _she thinks, her eyebrows creasing. _It would be creepy if he turned out to be…like…fifteen years older than me._

She's trying to find a reason to dislike him, and she's failing.

**viii. lust**

It was fucking difficult to hold back numerous derisive remarks that night. But what could he do? He didn't want to reduce her to tears.

(She looked like the kind of girl who would do that, anyway.)

He normally doesn't care about stupid things like feelings (what are those?), but there's something about her that makes him hold back.

It's the most goddamn frustrating feeling he has ever had the misfortune of experiencing.

Amazingly, it stays tucked away in the confines of his mind, and he forgets all about her and his own creepiness when he's within the safety of the lab.

He's not sure if this is a good thing.

* * *

Linda feels so natural with him. She won't venture to say that she's in love with him, but she's well on her way.

Their conversations begin taking on a more comfortable tone and he begins to drop a few details regarding his (nonexistent, from what she gathers) life here and there. It's hard not to press for more information, but she keeps herself in check and politely nods along, occasionally throwing her opinion out there.

She coerces him into having a drink, and she's still a bit iffy on whether or not it's worth the hell that he gave her for it. She raises her eyebrow when he asks for another (God only knows what is possessing him at the moment), but she obliges him and quietly begins to sip on tequilla herself.

She's never seen him drink before, so she can't help but wonder what his capacity for alcohol is. There's a nagging feeling that it isn't high at all and it's beginning to worry her, but she keeps quiet about her concerns. There's no basis for her assumption.

_(What kind of drunk is he? Emotional? Aggressive? Does she want to find out?)_

She's getting up to gather her things – it's an early night tonight – when he grabs her wrist and looks at her, deadpan.

She sits down.

* * *

Victor's only vaguely aware of what the hell is going on, and he can't bring himself to give a shit.

What even made him want to get drunk, anyway? He's been the resident crusader against alcohol, recoiling whenever the idiots even extended a drinking invitation to him. This is going to come back to haunt him.

It was probably curiosity. That'll fly. (He hopes.)

Linda is looking at him with the most alienated expression that she's likely given so far, and considering the fact that she works _here_ of all places, that is probably saying something.

She looks different. Or maybe he's looking at her differently. He can't tell, but he knows that she looks…nicer than usual. The aforementioned invaded look is suddenly cute. Or something. He kind of wants to touch her and smooth her hair.

What else would he do? Not _that_. Not a chance in hell. He's far above that. (But no so far above that he can't get drunk, apparently.)

The rational side of him is spouting crap about cirrhosis and self-discipline and what happened to being superior to the idiots?

"Stop…" He grips his head, feeling lightheaded and it's too dark, someone turn the lights up—

And he's only vaguely aware of her dragging him outside.

* * *

It's a pain in the ass to hail a cab and keep a guy from tripping over air at the same time. When she finally does, she realizes that she has no idea where he lives and she can't really trust him to remember on his own. So she groans and cannot believe what she is about to do.

"Where to?" the cab driver asks.

She mumbles a street name and looks to the man sitting next to her, who's drifting between sleep and consciousness.

If she thinks about it, he had about five drinks.

She sighs, shakes her head, and resists the urge to fall asleep. She thinks of that brief moment when he stared at her with that cloudy, faraway look in his eyes.

It could be worse, she reasons, but it doesn't help.

Not at all.

**ix. hate**

"Victor. Victor. Come on, get up."

He's not waking up.

It's six in the morning and she isn't in the mood for this bullshit. She cannot believe that she's standing in a white tanktop and boxers, trying to wake up a man she hardly knows.

She groans and starts to shake him._ "Wake up!"_

He finally opens an eye, looking at her skeptically before sitting up and realizing that holy shit, he's not where he's supposed to be.

"Good morning Sleeping Beauty," she says dryly as he props himself up against a cushion.

"Where am I?" His voice is groggy, and if she didn't know any better she would say that it didn't belong to him.

She feels her cheeks flare at the question; if she answers honestly, he'll jump to conclusions and pin the blame on her for allowing this to happen.

(Honestly, how is she going to stop something like this from happening? She can't do it all.)

"My apartment. You couldn't even remember where you lived, so I didn't really have a choice," she admits sheepishly, yawning and plopping herself on the sofa.

His mind can't register what's going on if the confused expression is any indication, so she drops it and goes to the kitchen, pouring a cup of water and fumbling around for some aspirin. She doesn't want to know what's going to happen when the pain – not to mention the realization that holy shit, he's in some girl's apartment – sets in. The only thing she can hope for is some understanding on his part and patience on hers.

It's stretching it, but she always makes the same mistake; she expects people to be rational.

Coming out of the kitchen, she sees that he's fallen asleep again, an arm thrown over his eyes. She almost smiles before remembering that what the hell, here's a grown man acting like he's a teenager who's just gotten drunk for the first time.

She leaves the aspirin and water on the table in front of him and scribbles some bullshit about having things to do.

After hastily digging out cab money and putting it besides the note, she takes one last look at him, sighs, and shuts the door behind her.

She hates a lot of things, but not cynical men she meets in bars.

She resolves that she's either stupid or in love before reminding herself that they're the same thing.

**x. love**

He's pissed beyond all rational thought (and when rational thought is your only friend, that's frustrating).

How could he have let himself go so easily? Why would he go to such uncharacteristic lengths to prove himself to her?

He doesn't know and it's fucking vexing.

When he saw the medicine, water, money and note neatly arranged on the table in front of him, he couldn't help but think that she was completely naïve. Sensible people wouldn't be that kind.

(At least, he hopes so – it would validate himself in some way.)

Hours later, after he's been to his place and gathered his bearings, he walks into work with such an intimidating aura that the gravity around him seems to increase tenfold.

When asked why he arrived late, he simply says, "Overslept."

* * *

She knows that she shouldn't expect to ever see him again, but Linda can't help but be disappointed when he doesn't show up for several weeks.

It gives her time to think about what exactly she sees in him, and she can't come up with anything other than 'he's just who he is.' She can vaguely grasp that concept – he doesn't seem to be sorry for anything that he is – but it feels like an explanation devoid of what really draws her to him. She can't say that he has charm (far from it. So far that he might as well be in a different galaxy).

But there's definitely something.

Worse yet, it forces her to think about herself again; her dead end job, her flimsy chance at actually doing anything with her life, and her own insecurities. It was nice to forget about all that for a while.

She's almost ready to quit when he comes back.

It's the same thing as before; inconspicuous, uninviting and offputting. The only difference is that he's actually looking at her for once. She blinks, tries to focus on something else, but he keeps looking at her. She is truly cornered.

She goes over to him, but it takes him a while before saying anything; the hopeless romantic in her is expecting something that is absolutely ridiculous to the rational mind.

"Why did you bother helping me?"

She doesn't say anything at first.

"Because," she finally squeaks.

"Thanks for that very specific explanation."

"Because I'm not heartless?"

He looks unconvinced. Hell, even _she's_ unconvinced, even if it's a perfectly valid explanation.

She folds her hands together and avoids eye contact. There's no getting around the fact that there was an ulterior motive for what she did.

"Maybe I care about you?"

He almost looks insulted.

"Is the thought that I might like you really that disgusting?"

He appears contemplative for a moment and she can almost read his thoughts. What she wants to hear comes out as a nearly inaudible whisper, but her heart leaps into her throat anyway.

"No. No, not really."

She manages a lopsided smile and squeezes his hand.

It's not love quite yet, but it's getting there.


End file.
